Page 3 of Waiting for You

I'd put myself back together into someone I could recognize in the mirror, piece by piece, layer by layer, each pass cleaning up the mistakes of the last. From the ergonomic stool I sat on, the ink staining my cuticles, to the client roster booked solid for three weeks, my father's name lived nowhere in this place.

My thoughts were snapped back to the present when my phone rattled against the glass counter. I checked the caller ID, and my pen went still on the page.

Mr. Ty.

I didn't pick up. I let it ring until the vibration died against the glass.

A few seconds later, it started up again and died. I added another fine line to the paper, listening to the delivery truck rumbling past, shaking the front window so hard it shuddered in the frame. It did that every time a big rig rolled by.

I should really get someone in to check the weather stripping.

The bell by the front door chimed, and I lifted my head only to find a man filling the entrance. He was tall, with Asian features, and dressed in a tailored midnight-blue suit. He wore thin-framed clear glasses.

I watched him sweep his gaze across the studio, taking in the plush waiting chairs, my clean ink station, and the framed flash art on the exposed brick. Until his eyes found me.

"You were watching it ring," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I averted my gaze and stared back at my sketchbook. "You should be thrilled I haven't blocked the number."

He hummed and walked deeper into my shop, dragging a guest stool off the wall. He planted it across from me and sat with his knees wide, his hands loose on his thighs.

I kept my pen moving.

"Sloane… You're my daughter," he said.

"Mmm."

"Why do you insist on making things so difficult?"

I carved another clean curve into the edge of my sketch. "I am your daughter. Why do you insist on making things so difficult for me?"

He clicked his tongue. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine."

He let the silence drag, trying to fill the room with his authority. "I have a pressing matter to discuss, Sloane. I need your full attention."

I snapped the sketchbook shut, set down my pen, and folded my hands over the leather cover, raising one unimpressed eyebrow.

"Dear sir," I deadpanned. "What could you possibly want from me now?"

His posture stiffened. "I need you to come back home."

"If our relationship only works when I bend the knee and come to your castle, you'll be waiting a lifetime." I waved one open palm at him, handing him the floor.

"I'm already sitting right here, so we're talking now." He paused and flattened his hands on his thighs, his chin dipping a fraction. "I'm sick, Sloane."

I froze, meeting his eyes.

"A tumor." His voice didn't waver. "It isn't malignant. Not yet. But the specialists agree on the potential. They want to watch it aggressively. I'm scheduled to start a new, experimental treatment, and they can't promise it'll work. The prognosis keeps shifting."

"Go home and brew some herbal remedies," I advised, clenching my fists.

He clicked. "Don't do that."

"I have a degree in graphic design. If you want deep medical commentary, go see a doctor."